User blog comment:Corbus/Castra Praetoria/@comment-4677325-20111213235050

Darskel stands on top of a hill and notches an arrow to his bowstring. Pulling the arrow as far back as it can go, he sets his cheek firmly on the notch of the arrow. He starts humming a song as he scans the walltop of the city. He starts muttering an old poem taught to him by his mother, looking for the odd head that might eventually pop up over the walltop. A head slowly comes up, and the otter looses the shaft.